Hyacinth
by barakei
Summary: Two different men, the same pain. Before the graves of two brothers, regret and hurt. Aiolia and Kanon find themselves face to face with the past and the future.


_**Hyacinth**_.

To cry over a gravestone, people say, can soothe the pain, the huge unacceptable pain of the loss.

"What a nonsense!" shouted to himself Leo Aiolia, everyday.

Nevertheless, everyday the noble saint of Leo could not but go in a lonely and gloomy procession to the little cemetery located few meters out of the holy perimeter, where the twelve temples stood in their magic, ancient and mysterious location. Aiolia could not but wake up early in the morning, with the raising dawn, and walk alone towards that solitary place.

To cry over a gravestone soothe the pain of a person who has lost someone beloved, Aiolia knew it very well. At least, it gives to the one who lives the feeling – perhaps the illusion?- that the beloved lost is there, that in an unknown way he can feel you, your presence refreshing his sleeping soul.

And yet, the tomb over which Aiolia wished to cry and soothe his hurt was so sadly _vacant_. The lifeless body of Aiolos, the generous youth, the true saint, the corpse of his brother had not been found.

Virgin Athena once back to Sanctuary, after the bloody and fratricidal war, Pallas Athena had ordered a tombstone for Aiolos, too. To bury, at least, his memory, the perpetual memory of his sacrifice, together with her other saints who lost their lives in that foolish, wrong fight to give her the possibility of confirming herself as the real Goddess, the only mistress of Sanctuary.

So Aiolos was buried. Close to Saga. The one led up to treason by his other evil self; Saga, the very betrayer of Sanctuary.

Aiolia had not protested about the companion chosen for the void grave of his brother. So great was the hurt Aiolia felt, so desperate the weight of the culpability he blamed himself for, so frustrating the _blankness_ under that cold dry land.

Had not protested, the noble saint of Leo.

And everyday, Aiolia woke up with the dawn and alone walked the lonely way to the little cemetery, where he did not have anybody to cry for. Only the memory of the hero. The memory of a brother. His brother.

And always he would carry with him flowers, fresh and scented flowers. He had never asked to his brother, little Aiolia, if there were a kind of flower he -Aiolos- would have preferred among the many ones earth donates to humankind. So, remembering what he may have heard, who knows where, he himself would choose for his brother crimson hyacinths; token of hurt and everlasting reminiscence.

Everyday, since Athena had returned, Aiolia would never miss to go and pay homage to that empty grave. He would come there, at the very dawn lights, there his steps becoming more and more slow and insecure when his eyes stumbled on the names of his dead companions, perished in such a detestable way. There he came, in front of the Sagittarius' gravestone, nearby was Saga's. His rests could really sleep in the cold ground, protected by the sacred Cosmo of the Goddess. Aiolia would give a disrespect glance to that name carved in the stone, a look full of contempt and bitterness remembering his childhood spent together with the one who was beyond a shadow of a doubt Aiolos' best friend.

But that was not the right place where to let his rage go off, this would have been blasphemous and insufferable. A fleeting glance he gave to that name he hated so much, just a glance and then he would address all his sad cares to the cold stone put beside.

It was a kind of consolation the fact that Aiolos' body had not been found, like a foolish hope his brother was still alive. Foolish consolation to know he was not there, covered by that dense, dark ground. Thinking of his brother's body, so warm and strong, that now was only mere powder dispersed who knows where. It was such an awful feeling to bear for him.

Aiolia would come, with his soul twisted by those hard feelings; he would kneel at his brother's gravestone and just stay there, a shouting silence throbbing his mind. His beautiful pale blue eyes on that name he could not call anymore. Actually, in those moments his hurt eyes turned into the sight of memory, that flood of feelings and thoughts passed through him, letting him completely worn out and helpless. He – the strong and bold saint of Leo- could not but let those waves overflowing him, bringing the past back into the present; the present trapped for good in the past. Aiolia was aware of it: till the very moment oh his last breath he would have lived with the memories of his past like vivid ghosts in front of his eyes, as they were part of his life.

Then, Aiolia back to himself would begin to clean, with tender, devoting gestures the empty gravestone of his brother. He would do it like Aiolos was really in there; like he –Aiolos- needed those cares due to beloved ones who aren't any more. So, lowering his eyes Aiolia would remove the flowers he had taken the day before, with his own hands he swept away the foliage dragged by the wind, together with the damp dust mixed at the brown freezing ground.

Aiolia would never drop any tear. Even if those little salty drops always dared him, with reckless impudence appearing at the threshold of his blue eyes, dimmed with regret. But Aiolia, as brave as always, would win that daily battle against his own tears. And for it, there was no need of his fierce speed light blows, or who knows what other special technique.

When tears dared to attack him, Aiolia just remembered.

What else could avoid him to cry his so loved and missed brother if not the true, terrible awareness that he –Aiolia- had betrayed him?

Would have he had the courage to go and visit, everyday, his – Aiolos- grave if his brother had really been buried in there?

Probably no.

Here it was another reason to not let his tears flow: he blamed himself to be so coward he could face neither Aiolos' memory nor a grave full of him.

Aiolia stayed there in silence. Always.

Silence was his only companion; it had been for all those thirteen years of grudge and loneliness.

Aiolia would keep his silence, even when he heard the steps of someone approaching to.

Another soul in pain, Aiolia always thought when he heard him coming up.

Another soul in pain, tormented by regrets and blame.

Gemini Kanon.

Kanon was back to Sanctuary for the very will of the Goddess. He had been forgiven by Virgin Athena, but not by his new companions.

Of course, not by Aiolia.

Kanon, who so much part had had in the madness and betrayal of Saga; Kanon, who so much guilt dragged with himself.

Everyday, the indomitable Kanon would take his own lonely procession to the cemetery. Early in the morning, he woke up with the very dawn lights and, leaving the Gemini temple he was now to protect, he would walk the paths that better hide his unwelcome presence to the others. Kanon would go and greet the brother – the twin- he had hated and loved so much.

And each morning, Kanon would find Aiolia kneeled beside Saga's tombstone. It is useless to say that the two men never shared a word, nor greeted each other. Nor a nod, or a sign, nor a grunt to be changed for any kind of comprehensible meaning.

Kanon would come, see Aiolia, recognize in him Aiolos whom he had hated much more than his own brother; Kanon would clench his fists to avoid himself being overcome by his own rage and regrets; then quietly, he would approach the gravestone ha had come to visit. There he stayed, silent. Keeping inside loud memories he barely was able to control, tears ready to slide shamelessly across his cheeks. But Kanon could not cry his pain, not in front of Aiolia.

Kanon, the imperturbable, the terrible Kanon whose grin was such a severe and cruel one, he only wanted to burst into tears and pour his hurt out of every single piece of himself. To cry the person he would have had to protect and instead he had left into that monster's claws.

They never shared a word, the two Athena's saint. Nevertheless, although Aiolia was angry with him, each morning before offering his hyacinths to the memory of his brother, Aiolia would divide in two bunches his flowers and without saying a single word he would reach out his hand and give one half to Kanon.

Who would never turn his head to him, never would he thank him, but always accept his tacit offer.

Hyacinth, the flower born from the blood of the beautiful youth loved by Apollo, who could not stand to lose his beloved and so decided to give his name –Hyacinth- to the flower born from him.

Hyacinth, the various kinds and the rarest ones, the ones with crimson drops on its petals as the drops of the blood of the unfortunate youth; Hyacinth, its intense scent would mean perpetual remembrance in the pain of a loss, love who overcomes sorrow.

And the two holy warriors, those two lonely men who had lost the persons they loved the most, who needed for so many reasons to ask for forgiveness, to get peace; at the very dawn of every morning they left behind them any cruel quarrel, any atrocious memories and kept a silent company to each other, in front of those two gravestones.

Two gravestones from which nothing came but love, the pure love that overcomes sorrow and even death itself. The love of two brothers still alive in the hearts of the ones who were always there to remember them.

For Ozaki-sama

By Barakei.


End file.
